


Think About How to Think

by JulyIdes



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Phanfiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Self-Hatred, YouTube
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:17:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulyIdes/pseuds/JulyIdes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Phan. Dan Howell is a YouTuber; therefore, Dan Howell is also an enemy of the State. Arrested on a job, Dan suffers the horrors of becoming a State prisoner. After being rescued, he faces PTSD, nightmares, and self-hatred. To make matters worse, Phil is pushing for a break-out of all State prisons. Dan's stuck between his own fear and the freedom Phil wants him to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody :3 This is my first Phanfic and it's pretty AU. I'd love to know what you guys think, if this story's worth pursuing or not, so feel free to drop a comment. Story title is from The 1975's song "Chocolate." Hope you enjoy reading!

" _Be safe, right?"_

" _Yeah, no problem." He smiles as assuredly as he can, all white teeth and dimples and confident eyes. Phil worries too much._

"Hey kid." A boot toe digs its way between his ribs and he flinches, pushing miserably at it. "Wake up time. Big man wants to see you."

He heaves himself off of the floor, staggering away from the guard. Everything in him says _no_ but everything around him says _yes_ and can't you guess which opinion matters most?

_Phil smiles back. It's weaker, heavier around his eyes. "And take care of Lion, yeah?"_

_Dan reaches out, ruffles Phil's hair and rolls his eyes. Phil catches his wrist and holds Dan's hand to his lips. "You got it," Dan says, letting his free hand tap on Lion's snout. "He can take care of himself, though."_

" _That he can," Phil agrees, his words moving against the back of Dan's hand like living creatures, implanting the word_ stay _in his blood._ Stay, Dan.

_But he can't. He's got a responsibility. "So can I."_

_And Phil nods. "That you can."_

"Boy, you musta done something special. He's awful angry," the guard says. He spins Dan around, cuffs his hands behind him. Cold metal chafes at his skin, chains shiver between his wrists. They sound as malevolent and cheerful as the guard. "I'd warrant today's not gonna be a pleasant one for you, bud." _You warrant?_ he thinks weakly, stepping where the guard pushes him to. Out of the cell, down the hall, past other prisoners, past hopeless words and rotting bodies, down to the Door.

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter here._ Advice long ago taken. What is hope? Hope is the thing he left behind one too many times. The guard knocks on the Door. Dan tries to keep his body from shaking, but he's a coward, really, and he's petrified. "Come in," the jailkeeper says.

They go in.

" _Sorry, not doubting you." Phil nuzzles his nose against Dan's._

" _I know. I should go." But he stays there. Just for a little while._

" _Yeah." Fingers stroke through his hair._ Stay, Dan. " _I love you."_ So stay.

" _Love you too," he says._ I can't. _They kiss. Dan leaves with Lion trotting on his heels. Tries to make himself understand that their parting isn't forever-it isn't even for a whole day. He'll be back by morning._

"Good evening, Mr. Howell," the jailkeeper says. He smiles-white teeth and dimples. "Dismissed, Monrue."

"Yes sir," the guard says, stepping out of the jailkeeper's office and closing the door with a final, resonant click.

The jailkeeper rises out of his chair, moves away from his desk and towards Dan. "So," he starts, stopping when the polished tips of his shoes meet Dan's bare toes. He smells like peppermint and cologne. "I assume you've heard about the recent break-out? And the one last week? And the week before that? Hm?"

Dan nods. "And you know what YouTube's been saying?" the jailkeeper asks. His breath is warm and spicy against Dan's face. "They're saying to release all the YouTubers we have here. Now how do you think they know we have YouTubers here?" Dan waits out the silence, trying hard not to look away from the jailkeeper's eyes. He's not guilty. He's not. "Up until we took you, they seemed content to think that YouTubers just died. Come on, Mr. Howell, give me a reason. Why'd they change their minds all of a sudden?"

Who's he kidding? Of course he's guilty. It's all his own damn fault. He's a stupid, worthless prick who's managed to endanger other lives because he couldn't pull off his own job right. Goddam him. "I don't know, sir." But he does know better than to ignore the jailkeeper. He tried that before, at the beginning. He hasn't since. He's not above lying, though. He's going to hurt no matter what he says. At least if he speaks he can keep his tongue.

"Of course you do." The jailkeeper smiles again, all the way up to his eyes. Dan hates his eyes. Hates everything about him, really, but his eyes the most. They're beautiful. They're hateful.

"I have suspicions, sir, but I'm not quite certain of any reason."

"Good save, Mr. Howell. Would you like to hear what I think?"

"Yes sir."

"I think you weren't the only one on your job." The jailkeeper arches an eyebrow, puts his hands on Dan's shoulders. Dan flinches. "Yeah? Opinion?"

"What makes you think that, sir?"

"You know what makes me think that. The only reason they could know you're here is if someone went back and told them. If you were the only one they'd think you were dead. We made sure the evidence was there but-well, you know, they don't seem to have bought it. Actually, they seem to be onto us. How long do you think it'll be before YouTube attacks this base?"

"I wouldn't know, sir."

"Maybe not. Anyhow, there's really nothing we can do about it now. We'll have to move all of you." The jailkeeper sighs and pats the side of Dan's face. "Damn stressful on everyone. You know, it makes me really kind of angry. Who else was on your team, Mr. Howell?"

"There was nobody else on the team, sir."

The jailkeeper shakes his head and steps back. Dan takes a shivery breath in through his nose. "You'd think you'd learn after so many months. Pity. Come on."

He crosses his room and Dan follows him, through the side door. The next room smells like metal and blood and burning flesh. Dan gives up on trying to look like something he's not and lets the shivers overtake his body, the panic close his throat. The jailkeeper smiles. His eyes, blue and bright, smile with him and he reaches for a knife.

_The evening they catch him is cool and dark. Lion crouches beside him, breathing hard, listening to their shouts and the flickering of their lights. Dan tangles his hand in Lion's mane, tugs it for attention. "Go home, Lion," he says. Lion's ears twitch. "Go home to Phil. To Phil, hear?" And he pushes on Lion's rump, shoves him out into the streets. "Phil."_

_There's a gunshot. Lion's body jerks and Dan's eyes widen, but then Lion is staggering straight and then he's running. "Phil," Dan says under his breath, looking towards the flashlights and standing up. If he's going to die, then by God, even if he's shaking like a freezing kitten and he wants to puke his guts up, he'll die standing up._

" _Phil, Phil, Phil," he murmurs to himself. Around him their shouts grow louder, their lights brighter, their anger thicker. But Dan thinks of dark hair and blue eyes and he steps out._


	2. Chapter 2

Zombie is back, creeping across the floor to sniff at Dan's ankle. She's become his constant companion-especially after days he spends with the jailkeeper, when he can't fight past the pain to shoo her away. She presses her wet nose against his skin, works her way up his body, chews on the raw flesh around his wrists. His body twitches with pain and he feebly strikes at her. She scampers back, watching him with small, greedy black eyes, and after a few seconds she approaches him again. He lets himself go limp, resigns himself to her wishes. He's too weak to even fight a rat. He's always too weak. The others are forcing themselves through the crack at the far end of his cell now. Greasy, fat bodies and yellow teeth. His muscles quiver, tighten around his bones, and then relax again. His vision wavers. The rats grow in size, shrink, shiver. The light dances around them, twists their shapes and their shadows.

Something clangs outside. Lots of things have been clanging outside. There's too much noise. Footsteps stop outside his cell. "What about this one, sir? The double Red?"

More footsteps. A clean, clear voice that sends Dan's heart jumping. The rats pause. "No. We'll leave him for YouTube to find. He won't make it. It's no advantage of theirs. They're moving hundreds of people, they won't be here for at least a week. Put a guard on him," the jailkeeper says.

"But-"

"He won't be able to break through it. Look at him."

"Yes, sir." The door to Dan's cell rattles and someone kneels beside him. The rats retreat. Her face is distorted and her hands reach for his neck. Metal fastens there, cold and solid. His head hurts. God, his head hurts. He whines and she steps away. "That's the last one in this hall, sir," she says.

"Are they still working in the 300 Hall?"

"I think so, sir."

"And then we're done, do you think?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Come on. Leave the door unlocked. I want to make sure YouTube finds their Mr. Howell," the jailkeeper says.

Their footsteps fade. The rats advance.

Dan closes his eyes.

Dan opens his eyes.

It's quiet now. Quieter than it's ever been. He can't hear any other prisoners, moaning and moving and praying like it'll do them any good. The jailkeeper took them all. He's alone, except for the rats. But the rats aren't here now, either.

He wants to move, to see, but his body refuses. He can only listen to the eerie quiet and try to fill it with noise. He dreams awake, shivering and painting twisted, confusing images in the air. There's Phil, the color of hope, and PJ and Chris and his mother, soft hands and eyes, his brother, his father, a bed with warm covers, the taste of a hot meal, the smell of fresh air, Phil's laugh, Phil's grin, the jailkeeper's eyes, the sting of metal, freedom in his head, the guard, weight around his neck, a dog on a chain, the city, the lights, a red bracelet, a lion and the color of hope and Phil.

Where is he? Where will he go? Where should he go? Is he even awake? He's cold. He's dying. Is he dying? Should he be relieved? Then why is he scared? Why does he want to live? Will they rescue him? Does he want that? Does he want death? What's wrong with him? How can he be right?

His stomach rolls. He scrambles to push himself up, but his elbows buckle. He retches, gags, wipes stringy bile away from the raw skin on his arms. Some of it clings to his bracelet and drips down his chin and he can't find the energy to scrub at it. He lets his body relax again, rolls his head back against the wall, closes his eyes. Opens them again. Does he want to die? Does it matter?

He hears steps. Tiny steps, clicking claws. He regards Zombie wearily as she comes towards him, her whiskers twitching, her spawn following her. And then she pauses as squeaking travels through the air and she turns and trots back to her home and he's alone again. His chest feels tight. He hasn't been this alone in a long time. He doesn't like it.

Is this where he'll die? Wallowing in his own vomit, pining over rats, in a lonely state prison? Fuck, he'd much rather have died when he stepped out after Lion that day all those months ago. They could have shot him, quick and easy, and he'd have died like a real man, with at least some semblance of courage and dignity. But now, if the jailkeeper's right, YouTube'll find him like this. A weak, sniveling excuse for a man. And what will Phil think? Fuck. Fuck, he doesn't want to die this way.

_So get up,_ he thinks. _Get up and walk out. The door's not locked._

But the jailkeeper was right. There's no way he can. His legs are broken, his blood is smeared across the floor, his vision flickers. He's weak. What hope is there for him? But he doesn't want to _die,_ goddamit. An angry cry catches in his throat and he tries to push himself up again, jarring every painful place on his body and making his limbs shudder. He manages to push his torso up, but when he tries to pull his legs under him his vision flares red and then black.

When he can see again he's back on the floor. His chest aches. He's pathetic. This is where he'll die, then. He squeezes his eyes shut, bares his teeth at the concrete. He's scared. He thinks about Phil. He hears footsteps. Not tiny, clawed steps, but heavy, hard steps. Quick human steps. He quiets his breathing, strains his ears. Have they come back for him? Did the jailkeeper change his mind? Dan's stomach twists. Please, please don't let the jailkeeper come back for him. Please.

The footsteps grow louder. There's more than one set. He wants to flip over, to see the hall, but his body has quit. It has more important things to worry about, like keeping his heart moving. So he waits and he stares at the wall and listens to the noise behind him. When the footsteps stop outside his cell he can hear their rapid breathing, the rustle of their clothes. And then: "Dan? Oh God, shit, Dan, Bear."


	3. Chapter 3

He knows that voice. The fact that he knows that voice both overjoys and depresses him. It's _Phil_ , his Phil, his gentle, sweet Phil, and that makes everything better. But then it's Phil, his Phil, here in this hell, in danger, and that makes his fear level rocket up. Then rationality returns and he realizes, faintly, that it's not real. He's dreaming awake, and Phil is here and that's very nice. He doesn't want to wake up. Maybe dying won't be so bad if he can just pretend Phil's here?

"Open it, can you open it?" another voice asks. He recognizes that one, too. PJ.

He hears the rattle of the cell door. "I think it's unlocked." Chris. All four of them are here. That's nice. He's got a good deathbed now. He tries to convince himself that his friends make everything, even dying, better. But he still doesn't want to die, really. Hearing their voices is making him homesick. He wants to go home to them, go home to Phil, like he told Lion to.

"God, is he breathing?" Phil asks.

"I don't-" PJ starts.

"Open the damn thing already," Phil says. His voice is stiff, sharp. Dan doesn't like it. He hears shuffling against the concrete, hears the cell door being hauled open, hears footsteps against the ground, and then people are touching him and his body jerks involuntarily. "Dan?" Phil asks. His voice has changed again. It's still sharp and worried, but it's smoother now. He wants to see Phil, and Chris, and PJ. He forces his eyes open, puts all his energy into twisting his head away from the wall. Their faces are skewed, bobbing in and out, but there they are. His family. He feels a wave of relief so strong it sends a hard shiver down his back. "Hey," he says. His voice is rough, cracked, and the word rasps against the sides of his throat.

"Oh, thank God," Phil says, dropping a kiss against his forehead. It's warm, gentle, pleasant. Dan feels his mouth curve up in an odd way-Jesus, he hasn't smiled in months. It's nice. It hurts-but then, everything does. He's disappointed when Phil moves back, feels his fingers twitch to reach but his arm refuse the order.

"Stay," he says. _Just for a little while, that's all. I won't last much longer. Just want you to be here. You all make it better._

Phil is back immediately, fingers tenderly ghosting over his temples and his nose and under his eyes and beside his jaw. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Not going anywhere, promise."

"Jeez, look at you, Dan," Chris says, rocking back on his haunches. "How in the hell?"

"Hurts," Dan agrees.

"Man, how are we gonna get him out of here?" PJ asks.

"Get him the shot," Phil says. His eyes are still roaming over Dan's face and Dan is alternating between looking at them, Phil's entire face, and his other two friends. PJ disappears from his line of sight and he narrows his eyes. Is that the last he'll see of PJ before he dies? He doesn't want it to be. But then PJ is back, settling beside Dan's hip, between Chris and Phil. He's rummaging through a small black bag.

"Shot?" Dan asks. His neck hurts, turning this way, but he's torn between relaxing it and never letting Phil out of his sight ever again. Phil wins out. Like duh.

"Yeah, morphine." Phil says. "It'll hurt if we move you like this, yeah?"

"Yeah." Dan's eyes flutter shut, but he pries them back open. "Hand?" he asks. He's a sissy-boy, yeah, whatever, but he's about to die and he's a coward and he wants to hold imaginary Phil's hand, dammit. He doesn't want to be alone anymore. He wants to go home.

Phil shuffles around to sit at the top of his head, reaching over to take his hand. It's not a tight grip, not like Dan wants. It's light and gentle and Dan wonders if it actually exists. It doesn't, and he tries to tighten his own grip, but his fingers are lax and unwilling. Little bastards. "You want the shot now?" PJ asks.

_No,_ Dan wants to say. _No, not yet. I'm not ready yet. I don't want to leave yet._ But he won't. There's no point. He'll leave when they tell him to. "Yeah," Phil says, reaching over with his free hand. PJ sets the syringe against his palm and Phil's fingers wrap around it, bring it closer to them. This is the time for endearing death bed goodbyes, isn't it? Well, he won't be giving any giant speeches, but he opens his mouth and says, "Love you guys." Good enough, right? That's all that matters: love. That's what they say. Anyway, he guesses he'll never have a chance to know for certain. Not that it matters.

"Love you too," Peej says, half-smiling.

"Love you back," Chris seconds.

Phil presses his lips to Dan's. It's an awkward position and an upside-down kiss and Dan savors every second of it. "Love you, Bear," Phil says, his words nudging against Dan's mouth. He leans away and Dan feels something prick his thigh-and he almost wants to laugh. To think he used to dread _shots,_ of all things. It's like being scared of a cat bite after you've been mauled by a tiger. But he's scared of what it'll do to him. It'll be painless, and he's grateful for that, and he'll fall asleep and then-and then he won't wake up. Fear seizes him again. What is death like? Is there a heaven? A hell? He doesn't want to go to hell. He's had enough of hell.

"Phil," he says. He wants to let Phil know he's scared, wants to press his mind into Phil's, but the guard is still locked around his neck. How can words convey what he wants to say? He whimpers helplessly. "Don't wanna die." He doesn't want to go to hell. He doesn't want to go to heaven. He doesn't want to go anywhere but home with Phil.

PJ's head bows. Chris looks away. "You're not gonna die," Phil says.

He wants to talk to the real Phil. He needs real Phil. This figment of his imagination is nice, but it's hurting his heart. He wants Phil. He wants to live, he wants to go home and tell Phil he loves him. If he could just do that, if he could only do that. He lets his head rest back on the concrete, tears blurring his vision. "Sorry," he says.

Phil leans over him, peppers kisses against the side of his face. "We'll talk when you wake up. I love you."

His body feels warm, weightless. He's dizzy. He's dying. He takes a breath, feels it press in his lungs, listens to his heartbeat. He'll miss it. "Love you," he murmurs again. He wants them to be the last words on his tongue. Phil smiles. That's nice. That's a good last image to have.

Dan lets his eyes flicker shut.


	4. Chapter 4

"-what Chris said."

Dan's still warm and comfortable. He feels like he's nestled up in his bed-no, Phil's bed, cuddled up to Phil's chest under Phil's heavy blankets. It's the best feeling in the world. He can even hear Phil talking, his voice cheerful. "I would too, jeez. So he's in the cafeteria?"

"Yeah." PJ's voice, quiet and amused. "He might be there for a while."

"I'd bet. He has to clean them all by himself?"

"Yup. I'm thinking we could go grab another dinner, just to spite him." Dan can hear the smiles in their tones. "We could tell him Dan's awake."

Phil laughs softly. Dan can picture his tongue jabbing out between his teeth, his eyes crinkling up at the edges. "Now that's cruel."

_But I am awake,_ Dan thinks. He wants to open his eyes, to move, but he feels heavy and strange. He doubts he'll be awake long. Actually, maybe he's not really awake. Maybe this is a dream? Where is he? Why're Phil and PJ here? What happened? He tries to remember, but his mind is foggy and refuses the job. It strains towards sleep, and his body agrees with it.

When he wakes up again it's quiet. It unnerves him. Where is he? He opens his eyes, stares into the dark, feels his heartbeat speed up. This isn't his cell. Have they moved him? Why? What're they going to do to him? He twists his head, tries to see past dim shadows. Moves his hand, groping for some kind of orientation. He feels something under him, softer than concrete-which, admittedly, isn't saying a lot. Something else, scratchy, is laid over him. He pushes it off, sits. His body is slow, sluggish. It feels like he's on a bed. Is he on a bed? He widens his eyes. _Adjust, dammit._

He reaches off to his side, cautiously, feels metal. Rails? Jail bars? Is he still in a cage? He leans forward more, trying to follow the line of the metal. It runs horizontally, which seems odd for a cage. But what does he know? And then he pauses, because his legs don't hurt because Phil gave him morphine because Phil-wait, wait, wait. That was a dream. It has to be a dream. Why isn't he dead? He should be dead. Was Phil really there? Is he really out of the prison?

No way. _Get your head on straight, Mr. Howell,_ he thinks. There's no point in getting his hopes up. He has to be rational. The dream about Phil was probably because of the fever-he had a fever, he knows that. Everything was so weird. Maybe the entire evacuation of the prison was a dream, too. Maybe the jailkeeper just went too far and he's in the prison infirmary. That seems plausible, right? Despite himself, there's a sudden weight against his ribs. It was a good dream. A wonderful dream. The worst kind of dream. The kind that, more than anything else, makes him want to curl up in a little ball and sob his worthless heart out. He slumps back against the bed. That's what it is, right? An infirmary cot?

But why would they give him painkillers? _Stop,_ he thinks. _Just stop._

The third time he wakes up it's light. He shifts gingerly, stretches out, enjoys the bliss of numbness while it lasts. "Dan?"

Bliss gone. He knows that voice. He opens his eyes. He knows that face. Light eyes, curly hair. "PJ?" he asks, blinking owlishly. He's so fucking confused. Is he awake? Isn't he still in prison? In the infirmary? Or not? Where the hell is he really?

"Dan," PJ says again, beaming. "It's about time."

Dan takes a deep breath. Tries to clear his head. Maybe it's the drugs? Maybe they gave him hallucinogenic painkillers? Is that a thing? "Where am I?" he asks.

"Home sweet home," PJ says, bringing his hands together in front of him. He's still grinning. It should be creepy by this point, but Dan's finding he rather appreciates it.

"Really?" Dan says. He should've expected PJ's answer. If he's hallucinating, PJ, who's a hallucination, wouldn't know any better than to be where he was hallucinated to be. Right?

PJ nods earnestly. "Really really."

"How?"

"You didn't think we'd let you just stay in prison, did you? Come on, man. We broke you out. It was almost a week ago."

"A week?"

"Yeah, Mr. Mimic," PJ says. Something shifts behind Dan and his heart jumps into his throat. He pushes himself into a sitting position, snaps his head around. "Good morning," PJ says chipperly. "Look who's awake."

Phil's hair is ruffled, sticking up, his eyes bleary and wide. "Bear."

There's a sense of removed surreality about the whole thing. He still isn't sure he's not dreaming. Actually, he's pretty sure he is. But then he'd have to be alive. He's alive? He's alive. Thank God, he's alive. He expects to feel some sort of joy from that realization, but there's only a tame sense of understanding and the cynical thought that maybe he shouldn't be so eager to be alive."Phil," Dan says to the brilliant hallucination. "Hi."

"Hey." Phil swings his legs over the side of the cot he's on, stands beside Dan's. "How are you?"

Dan shakes his head. "Weird."

"Do you hurt?" Phil's eyes are soft, concerned. Dan can't look at them for long.

"No. Tired." He closes his eyes. "Confused."

"S'alright," Phil says. Careful fingers push the hair off of Dan's forehead. "They've got you on some pretty strong stuff."

"Feels like it."

"Yeah, you've gotta hook us up," PJ says, leaning his arms and against the cot rails and resting his chin on them. His eyes are relaxed and curious.

"I'll get right on that," Dan says. The words are natural, the sarcasm habitual. It's strange. Disorienting. He hasn't spoken like that in months.

"Lay down," Phil says. Dan does. "If the doctor sees you up she'll skin us."

"Should I go get her?" PJ asks.

"Yeah, would you?" Phil says. Dan watches PJ step out of the room with a sense of foreboding. Not a strong one-he's not feeling anything strong-but one that he nevertheless attempts to show Phil. Attempts. His mind is blocked before it reaches Phil's. Dan reaches for his own neck, feels smooth, free skin, and offers Phil a confused glance. Phil's mouth twists into a guilty grimace when he sees Dan's eyes. "Sorry," he offers, fumbling around his own shirt collar. "I have a guard. What is it?"

"Why do you have that?" He tries to keep his voice neutral. It's not hard. That's starting to bother him. Shouldn't he be feeling something? Like enormous relief or fear or anger or _something?_

There's a click as Phil unsnaps the guard. Dan stares at it. Shouldn't he feel fear? Horror? Disgust? Phil sets it under his chair, takes Dan's hand, kisses his finger and his palm. There are bandages around Dan's wrists, splints on several of his fingers, an IV in the crook of his elbow. _I trust you,_ Phil says.

"Why'd you have it on?"

_You woke up and freaked out. Remember?_

"No."

_Yeah, well. And then you freaked me and Chris and the nurse out, so the doctor said if we were going to visit you we had to wear guards, at least until you woke up. And you're still on sedatives. I mean, just to keep you calm. You know. Better than restraints._ Phil wrinkles his nose. _Sorry. Love you._

Dan nods and presses his mind against Phil's, trying to convey his understanding and his own love. God, it's great to do that. His mind's been cooped up too long. He's been away from Phil too long. It's been too long. Any length of time is too long.

_I want to cuddle you._

"I wouldn't object," Dan says.

Phil sighs and sticks his lower lip out. _Yeah, but your legs._

"Fuck that," Dan says, scooting himself over and patting the narrow sliver of cot beside him. "Lay down." He wants to know if maybe this hallucination will feel real-warm and soft and safe like Phil is.

_Bear-_

"I can't feel them anyways."

Phil shifts his weight and Dan can see him debating, thinks maybe he might cave, presses his longing against Phil's mind, sees his eyes surrender-and then the doctor walks in.

Dan tenses. Damn her. He wanted fucking cuddles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey, wow, this took way too long to upload, and I know, like, nothing about medicine, so any medical practices mentioned in this chapter and the whole story is mostly Google and guesswork. If you know any corrections I could make it'd be great to know. Thanks so much for reading :D You guys are the best.**

"Good morning, Mr. Howell, Mr. Lester," the doctor says, crossing the room in short, tight steps. Dan tries not to cringe at the way she calls him. It's not his place, anyway. She can call him whatever she wants. She can do anything she wants to him. _Even if it's a hallucination? Yeah, probably._ His mind has conjured up vicious punishments before. So he sits still and smiles half-heartedly and tries to appease her and lets Phil talk for them.

"Good morning," Phil says, turning to greet her but leaving his hand to stroke Dan's hair back.

"I must say, it's good to see your eyes open," the doctor says. Her eyes lock on his. He flickers his around. Should he look back at her, or would that seem challenging? But if he looks around too much she might think he's got brain damage or something. Hell, he probably does. And what does he even say to her?

"Thanks. Ma'am," he says. That _shouldn't_ go wrong. It has before, but, you know, only once or twice. Better than not saying anything. And it was appropriate, right? Polite? But now he's entirely conscious of how scratchy and cracked his voice is. Great. Hopefully she won't find it irritating.

"My name's Doctor Reyes," she says. "Could you tell me if you feel any pain? We're currently giving you seven milliliters of morphine intravenously every fours hours. "

"No ma'am," he says.

"That's good. Your mouth may be dry and you may be nauseous. That's normal, but hit the call button right there beside you and tell us if you start feeling too sick. We can give you something for it. We've also got you on a hydroxyzine. You woke up yesterday in quite a state. Do you remember that?"

"No ma'am, no pain."

"The hydroxyzine is to keep you calm. We'd like to take you off of it soon, if you feel up to that. If not, that's alright. We'll just lower your dosage so your mind can start cleaning itself up. Sound good?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Do you want to stay on it for a while? It's perfectly fine. You've been through quite an ordeal."

"No ma'am."

"You want off of the hydroxyzine?"

"Yes ma'am, please."

"Alright, I'll let the nurses know." She smiles gently. She asks him if he wants Phil or PJ to leave. He shakes his head rapidly and she smiles again, then goes on to tell him each and every injury currently plaguing his body in large, technical terms. In short: both his legs, three fingers on his right hand, two fingers on his left, and three ribs are broken. He could have told her _that._ He thought that most of his fingers had healed, and she agreed that they had, but that they'd had to reset them. He's got bruises head to foot, but those are superficial. His flesh wounds, including the torn skin around his wrists and ankles, the rat bites, the carvings, the burns, those are all healing nicely. The infection is being treated with strong antibiotics.

And he's healing rather quickly. You know why? Because there's a damn Green III working on him. He should have known better than to give Phil the right of next-of-kin. But, okay, maybe he can't fault _Phil._ Especially when after the doctor tells him about the Green, Phil's giving him puppy-dog eyes. It's Charlie, anyway. Charlie seems safe enough.

After she's briefed him, Reyes shoots him up with more morphine, wishes them well, and takes her leave. He's only awake about ten minutes after that, because the morphine makes his mouth dry and his head hurt and Phil and PJ encourage him to sleep.

The next time he wakes up he's confused and his stomach rolls and he scrambles to sit, to vomit over the side of the bed railing. Wires pull against his veins and his muscle shiver and his stomach clenches and he wretches and things actually come out of his body, things that he'd be curious about how, exactly, they got _into_ his body, if he had the mind to think about anything other than the nausea and the sour taste and his mouth and the way everything is strange around him and how his heart is thundering in his chest and fuck, he's scared and why the hell? His throat feels tight and he pulls breath through it, hearing it rattle and he can't breathe, why can't he _breathe?_ He drops his bottom jaw, tastes dry air on his tongue, lifts his chest and grasps frantically at the bed sheets.

"Bear?" Dan flinches violently, dropping his head towards his collarbone but that closes his throat so he pulls it up again, leans it back and tries to breathe because he doesn't want to _die_ and he's sick to death of that. "Dan?" A shudder racks his bones. Phil-Phil, he knows that voice, but it's as fearful as his and it's not slowing his heart any. "Dan, stop. _Dan._ " Phil's panicking. His voice is higher, rawer, and when Dan glances at him he sees wide, frantic eyes and a jumping chest. Are they going to die? They're dying. Why are they dying?

Phil drops back into his plastic chair and it nearly topples and he puts his head between his knees and Dan gags on air and his stomach cramps and rolls again and he swallows convulsively and terror lodges against the back of his throat. Phil moves again, fumbling underneath his chair, and Dan hears the scrape of metal and he jerks and a whine forces itself over his tongue. Phil's holding something Dan recognizes, because he wore it for months and months and he tries to move away but his legs are in hard plaster and that's as effective as chains and then Phil clicks the guard into place around his own neck and Dan realizes he's alone in his fear.

Phil stands and the chair skitters back on the tile and his face is calm again, but his eyes-there. There's the fear. He can't look at them, but Phil leans over him, braces his hands against either side rail and speaks. His voice is collected and low and it reminds Dan of a river, really, rumbling and steady. Dan turns his face, tries to breath, listens to Phil's voice. "-alright, you're okay. You can breathe. Look. Look, Bear. Can I have your hand?"

Dan shudders but releases the bed sheet and offers his hand because it's Phil and he has to try and make Phil happy. Phil smiles and Dan can see it from the corner of his eye and it doesn't ease the choke of the terror but it does confuse it some. Phil rests Dan's hand against his chest. His hands are warm and his shirt, plaid and fuzzy, is soft against the pads of Dan's un-bandaged fingers. And Phil is breathing. Dan wants their hearts to beat together. It's cheesy and it's stupid but he remembers when they were in bed and they spread their palms against each other's hearts and tried to synchronize the thumps. They never had gotten it to work.

But they could breathe together. That part was easy. It's hard now, it's work, because his body insists that he's suffocating and it wants him to try harder, to survive. He keeps his mouth open like a tired dog, but he tries to copy Phil's deep, slow breathing. Phil's other hand comes up from the railing and cards behind his head, eases his ear against Phil's ribcage, twines through his hair. He feels Phil drop his head, feels Phil's chin bump the back of his head and he focuses on that and he counts the beats beneath his ear. _One, two, three, don't speed up, we're okay, okay, one, two, three._

And he thinks it's working. His stomach is still turning and his muscles are still tight and fearful but he can breathe and Phil is murmuring pleased things. "Good, that's good. See, Bear? Not so bad. You're just fine." But then the door opens and he jumps and he breathing hitches and Phil pulls his head tighter against his chest and his head moves towards the door. "You're fine," he says. Then, lifting his voice, "Hey, I think he's had a panic attack. Or is having. I don't know. He's breathing slower now, but-"

A stranger's voice. "I'll run and get Dr. Reyes if he doesn't need urgent care."

"I think he'll be okay for a couple minutes. Yeah, thank you." The click of shoes, the click of a door. "Bear? How are you?"

Dan rubs his head against Phil's shirt and sighs heavily.

"We'll get through it. You just have to keep hoping," Phil says, his voice bright and determined. Dan nods-at the least, Phil has enough hope for the both of them to run on for a while yet.


End file.
